


Dead Men Can't Sue

by chromission



Series: Catch Me If You Can [3]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Author rambles, Buzzfeed Unsolved True Crime, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Had to revise this way too many times, Italics everywhere -EVERYWHERE, M/M, Mild Language, Pls don’t disturb graves, Tinsley makes bad life choices, a bunch of nonsense with the bois, buzzfeed unsolved au, i think about what to write past midnight and it shows lmao, mild violence, seriously don’t, shyan, this wasn’t a date but was it?, yes I shoehorned that bit from Finding Nemo in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 08:23:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14328459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromission/pseuds/chromission
Summary: Ricky lies in the darkness, eyelids batting wildly.He wonders if his shoes matched his outfit as he lays on top of a corpse in an over-sized casket that seemed to emanate warmth for a chilly winter.





	Dead Men Can't Sue

**Author's Note:**

> • TO MAKE THE WHOLE STORY MORE COHESIVE, I’D HEAVILY SUGGEST READING THE FICS IN THE SERIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER. CUZ THIS WILL BE REFERENCING THE PREVIOUS WORK
> 
> • And yes, text in italics mean flashbacks OR interruptions  
> • Forgive the time jumps  
> • Is this series ridiculous? Absolutely! But there are no rules here, so whatever amirite?  
> • I’ll admit, this went everywhere  
> • Sorry if it’s so long. Thing’s got out of hand. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

1995

Location: Unknown

Time: Unknown           

 

 

_Dear reader, are you claustrophobic?_

_Are you allergic to wilted flowers?_

_Are you prone to feeling understandably uneasy by the notion of landing yourself in dangerous situations of the most unrealistic degree?_

_Well, if you answered: no, no and yes_

_Then you’d get be great company for a certain someone._

 

* * *

 

Ricky Goldsworth opens his eyes to find nothing. He can’t tell if there were fleeting blotches of colour swimming in the black _._ He waits for his irises to adjust, yet nothing appears. His body is sprawled on an unleveled surface. The inside of his mouth is painfully dry and swallowing his non-existent spit feels like inhaling sand. He lifts his hand to rub his face but is stopped when hitting a velvet covered ceiling. He tries to prop himself up, but his knees and head hit the same ceiling. His hands make their way to map out his dark surroundings. His fingers make out walls covered in fabric and what appeared to be dried leaves. He touches what is beside his head and feels the plains of a person’s face that was awfully too cold. He waits to feel a draft from the person’s nose or mouth. Seconds pass and the person stays frozen. The cogs in Ricky’s head are churning at an unrhythmic pace, he swears he could hear it himself.  He fidgets and repeatedly fists his hands open and close before tensing when a voice echoes out

“You’re finally awake, huh?”

 

* * *

 

_Dear reader, tell me, what would you do if your current circumstance has you bored out of your mind?_

_Watch some telly? Have a nibble at something stale for the hell of it?_

_Wouldn’t you say something more refreshing be better? Perhaps a change of scenery._

_Ricky Goldsworth pondered the same thing while staring out the window of a penthouse he most certainly did not own. He’s seated on a sharp cornered chair in front of a matching coffee table. He rubs his right wrist with his left hand’s thumb, tracing the marks from where a certain detective’s handcuff once was. Though, his skin has long forgotten the chafing seeing how it’s been months since he saw the detective. The city lights peek through the tinted glass of the window and shone on the bottle of alcohol he’s been nursing for the past half hour._

_Was it alcohol? He wouldn’t be surprise if he did pick up lighter fluid from the pantry. He doesn’t think he’s intoxicated but his eyes are hazy. He picks the bottle up and reads the three bronze words._

_“product of Scotland”_

_He closes what he now knows is a half empty bottle of scotch and carries it with him when he leaves to reach the parking lot. He locates his car and lazily slithers into its seat.  He opens his glovebox and several items fall out:_

_A steam train keychain_

_A book titled, “The Super Useful Guide for Digging Through Different Types of Diggable Dirt”_

_And a receipt for a vintage unicycle._

_Ricky wriggles his hand into the compartment, adamant to find a pen._

_He finally pulls out a silver sharpie and gets to work._

 

* * *

_“I love my job…I love my job… I love my job…I love my job….”_

_The mantra emanated from a small and disorganized office of a particular investigation agency in West Virginia._

_Tinsley’s fingers tap his desk with increasing speed as he waits for someone to pick his call up._

_“Ah hello, Mrs. Hughes. I’d like you to come down to the office -oh, uh, right now? Well, okay. I mean, this would be better in person and- okay, okay.”_

_Tinsley scratches the back of his neck and continues._

_“So yes, the pictures have just come out of developing and uhm… your suspicions were…yes, your husband has been in the company of…. four different women on separate occasions and I gathered-.”_

_He flinches away from the phone._

_“Mrs. Hu-  ma’am, please calm down”_

_A knock comes on the door and Tinsley raises his head to see someone holding papers and folders stacked on a box. He uses his free hand to motion his colleague in. A low thud echoes in his office when the box and folders are unceremoniously plopped on his desk._

_He waits till his colleague leaves the room before scratching at the telephone’s mouthpiece_

_“Oh Mrs. Hughes! I’m terribly sorry but -what was that?” he feigns. He grazes his nail against the phone’s mouthpiece faster, adding some taps in between. “I didn’t catch that, sorry. You’ll have to call back some other timmmmmme.”_

_He quickly hangs up and yanks the cord out of the wall. His eyebrows are exaggeratedly raised as he lets out a quick sigh. He slumps into his seat and looks at the stack of files before him. His attention is immediately drawn to the box below. Taking it into his hand, he looks at its label_

**_To:_ **

_C.C. Tinsley_

_BFU Investigations Ltd._

_1046 Plupple Street_

_Kanawha, WV 25813_

_US_

_A return address doesn’t seem present. He gives the box a few shakes when he hears what sounds like sloshing inside. With eager hands, he rips the box open and mindlessly takes and chucks out a fistful of newspaper that’s been stuffed inside the box’s confines. In the middle, is a bottle of scotch. Tinsley takes it in hand for further examination and sees that the bottle has been opened and consumed. More interestingly, above “product of Scotland”, a single word written in silver marker spells out_

_“NECROPOLIS”_

_Tinsley sets the bottle on his desk and stares at the crooked letters. He digs through the box and empties the remaining newspaper onto the desk, hoping to find something else._

_Nothing._

_That detective brain of his seems to be getting rusty. Very very rusty._

_Before he moves his arm to scratch his head, he shifted his eyes to the crumpled newspapers. They were by different publishers and from different years, but they all had something in common. They were news section pages and Tinsley recognized most of them, for he had copies pinned to his string theory wall._

_He dropped his head down and slowly wiped his face with both hands. With a deep breath, he looks at the bottle once more and mutters a phrase that has been leaving his mouth for far too many times_

_“Son of a bitch”_

 

* * *

 

_Tinsley trudges through a souvenir shop of the airport. A knickknack or two catches his eye, but he leaves without purchasing anything. He overhears employees talk of a coming snow storm. He takes a seat nearby and takes out his log book. He fills in the details on the top left corner of the page._

_ Location: Glasgow _

_ Time: 16:23 _

 

* * *

 

_With a closing snap of the notebook, Tinsley wakes himself up. He notices renewed vigour in himself and tucks his notebook back into his bag._

_Once out the exit, he sees that the sky is stretched with miles of stagnant clouds. It seems that the shower of snow will be accompanying his taxi ride’s duration to the hotel._

_While the cab driver holds a small conversation, Tinsley couldn’t help but peek over to the back window out of creeping paranoia of being watched. He should be unsettled but the feeling never fully comes. At this point, he welcomes it._

_Ah there it is, the voice in his head is chiding him now._

_“Oh, fantastic idea, Tinsley, brilliant! Catch the soonest flight to Scotland over what? After misunderstanding a clue? Clue?! It was probably some dumb prank!”_

_Tinsley ignores it though. He feels as if he’s having fun poking his voice of reason._

_In that moment, the only thing that seemed like the right move would be to interrupt the cabbie’s rambling._

_“Uh sorry, sir but just a quick question, yeah?” The cab driver looks at him through the mirror with raised eyebrows. “Does ‘necropolis’ ring a bell to you?”_

_“The graveyard? Got someone to visit?”_

_“Uhm yes, actually”_

_“Well, in this weather, it’s half an hour away from whe-“_

_“Could you take me there? Right now?”_

_“It’s getting late, lad. We’re practically in a flurry and it closes in less than an hour.”_

_“I’ll pay you double! No- triple if you turn this car around and get me there in less than half an hour.”_

_Tinsley pushes against his car seat. He takes out his wallet and realizes he didn’t exchange enough bills back at the airport._

_He scrounges up what he can and finds himself staring at a watch perched on his left wrist. He takes it off and pairs it with the few pound bills, ready to hand it to the cab driver._

_He pauses though, the black watch feeling heavier in his palm now. Tinsley takes a deep breath._

_He straps it back on his wrist and looks back to the driver._

_“Oh man, I hope you don’t mind American dollars.”_

 

* * *

 

_Two feet._

_Two feet in two feet._

_Tinsley’s two feet were very much numb as he stood in two feet of snow. This amused him._

_To the sound of tires on snow, he looks back to see his cab drive off. And with that, he is left with silence._

_Tinsley’s eyes survey his surroundings. It was beautiful, actually. The fresh untouched snow that juxtaposed the gravestones and monuments gave Tinsley a sense of peace. He’d take more time to embrace the quiet if only he wasn’t tailing a certain man who had the proclivity for crime._

_He almost rolled his eyes when he remembered the reason for being here._

_He moves with sloth like speed over the path. Occasionally whipping his head back to look behind him. The hair on his neck still stay upright._

_Crunch._

_Tinsley’s ears perk up._

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

_Upon reaching what seems to be the highest peak, he sees a dark figure shuffling in front of a tombstone. Upon closer inspection, Tinsley sees that the figure is wielding a shovel. He sees sprays of black flying behind the man every time he swung the shovel up. He also notices that the man has been taking swigs from a flask. The constant crunch from when the spade comes in contact with the soil fills the air._

_Tinsley stays low and crouches to a tombstone to hide behind._

_As in classic fashion, Tinsley loses his footing in the deep white of the ground and lands face first into the snow._

_The sound of crunching cease._

_When Tinsley lifts his head up, he sees the figure fully turned to him. With a straight back and what seems to be an iron grip on the shovel, he approaches Tinsley._

_A black beanie sits atop the man’s head. A navy scarf wrapped snuggly around his neck covers his nose and mouth._

_In his poor attempt to embody the figure of a sad starfish, Tinsley chooses to stay still._

_The man in black crouches before Tinsley with his shovel standing upright beside him._

_A hand yanks the scarf down to reveal a toothy grin that comes close to splitting the face of non-other than Ricky Goldsworth._

_“Good sir, you’ve made it!” says Ricky in a misplaced and botched London accent._

_Tinsley slams his face down into the snow that he buries half if his head in it. He lets out a muffled grumble._

_Ricky takes a step back, “Well, come on then!”_

_He spins around with the shovel as he waited for Tinsley to get back on his feet._

_Once Tinsley dusted the snow off himself, he hears Ricky yell out_

_“Think fast!”_

 

_Tinsley did not in fact, think at all._

 

_The flat metal of a shovel collides with the detective’s face. The comical sound of skin hitting metal punctuated the air along with Ricky’s laugh._

_Tinsley is on the ground once more, but Ricky takes his hand to help him up this time._

_As Tinsley’s left sleeve pulls back with his movements, Ricky let's out a small sound of fondness._

_“Aww, you actually kept it”_

_Tinsley looks to where their hands meet and realizes that Ricky was referring to the watch._

_He looks at the ground and wriggles his hand out of Ricky’s hold._

_“Yeah well, it is a nice watch. Would be a waste not to...” Tinsley trails off._

_Ricky snickers at Tinsley’s bashfulness. He places the shovel firmly in Tinsley’s hands and shuffles back to the hollowed ground._

_Tinsley’s eyes read over the tombstone_

**_Potor Accum Alator_ **

**_Aged 39 Years_ **

**_“Wine hath drowned more men than the sea.” – Thomas Fuller_ **

****

_“Who names their kid, ‘Potor’?” Tinsley thought_

_“What the hell are you up to this time?” he asks as he follows Ricky, who now picks up a spare shovel. He noticed a waft of whiskey off the shorter man._

_“What does that detective brain of yours deduce?”_

_“Grave robbing?”_

 

* * *

 

_He realizes he doesn’t see shame in humouring Ricky’s antics. And this is how he found himself tomb raiding along side the infamous Ricky Goldsworth._

_Curiosity replaces rationality._

_Tinsley isn’t even surprised anymore, but he can’t help but let his mouth drop after listening to Ricky’s plan of digging up a supposed old colleague._

_They now stand six feet in the ground with snow piling on their hair. The hole seemed unusually large, around four by ten feet, but once they reached the wide glossy casket it is understandable why._

_“You’re looking for what now?”_

_“I need to find a key!” Ricky responded all too excitedly as he jabs the lock off the casket with the spade. He grips the edge the cover and started to lift it._

_“Ey ey, hold on!” Tinsley slams the coffin’s lid back before it fully opened. “Let me get this straight. You’re trying to find a key? An actual key? And the damn thing is with some guy you’ve worked with?” Tinsley points to the casket._

_“Yeeep!”_

_“And the key is important because?”_

_Ricky scoffs as if the reason was obvious._

_“The key unlocks a safe deposit box located in some swiss bank of course!”_

_Tinsley’s brows rise, and he gives his head a little shake._

_“You…you’ve lost me there- I don’t...the context is kind of -wait what?”_

_Ricky interrupts him by fully opening the lid._

_Tinsley gawks at the sight. There laid a seemingly fresh body of a thin man. He was no older than Tinsley, but the most curious thing was what that filled the casket._

_Around the body were many poetry books, a saxophone, several shrivelled-up bouquets of white lilies, fine china and a tiny cat shaped urn labeled “Mr. Pickles”_

_“You were always the pretentious bastard” Ricky chuckles fondly at the corpse “and quite the hoarder”_

_Tinsley wore an unsettled face as he scratched the back of his neck. He tightly grips the shovel that he’s been holding this whole time and grimaces._

_“Oh god, please tell me you didn’t kill him”_

_Ricky uncaps his flask and takes a swig before breaking out a Glasgow grin._

_“And”_

_“What”_

_“If”_

_“I”_

_“Did?”_

_Tinsley didn’t appreciate the theatrics, and this earned Ricky a frown._

_“Oh, just messing with you!” Ricky wheezes._

_He places the flask to his lips once more and murmurs “He died from alcohol poisoning”_

 

* * *

 

_They both step into the casket to rummage through the series of paraphernalia. Tinsley failed to get Ricky to disclose anymore details about the safe deposit box, but it will have to wait._

_Tinsley sees something shining under Potor’s collar. His hands reach for it and lifts it off the body’s neck. There in front of his eyes hanged a small brass key._

_“Good work, detective!” Ricky cheers from behind._

_Tinsley rolls his eyes when Ricky snatches it from his hand to get a better look at it._

_Click._

_The all too familiar sound of a gun being cocked alerts the boys._

_They turn around to see four menacing men peering down the hole they stood in. Two of the strangers held guns equipped with silencers to Tinsley and Ricky._

_“Hand over the key.” One said._

_Tinsley keeps a nonchalant face, you could say unamused even,_

_but he was without a doubt screaming inside._

_“Yeah? You’ll have to kill us for it” Ricky mocks with hands on his hips._

_The two unarmed men jump in the grave to corner the boys from behind._

_“Us?!” Tinsley hissed under his breath, trying to keep his eyes cool “I am not dying here because of you!”_

_The men from behind close in on Ricky and Tinsley._

_The two men above them begin to squeeze the trigger._

_“Last chance, Goldsworth” one of them says._

_Tinsley raises his hands. “C’mon guys. Can we all just, I dunno, head down to a pub and chat this over a pint?” he tries to give a lopsided smile. His attempt made Ricky giggle._

_Thwack!_

_In case you didn’t know, dear reader._

_“Thwack” is a noun, a verb and in some cases an onomatopoeia._

_In this case, they were all three._

_And that is what Ricky saw and heard when one of the four strangers swung the steel end of a shovel to the back of Tinsley’s head._

_Before Ricky could show concern or even laugh, he hears and feels the aforementioned noun/verb/onomatopoeia on the back of his skull._

_And then,_

_the world_

_goes_

_black._

 

* * *

 

“You’re finally awake, huh?”

“Tinsley! Is that you?” the genuine surprise evident in Ricky’s voice.

A beat of silence follows.

“No, it’s your conscience. We haven't spoken for a while. How are you?”

“That’s strange. I was usually told that I didn’t have one. I’m fine though, thank you.”

Ricky felt a sharp jab to his ribs.

“Ow! Tinsley!” Ricky rubs his side “What was that for?”

“What was that for?” Tinsley mocked. “We’re buried alive, Goldsworth! I’ve tried everything, but the lid won’t budge!”

Ricky wiggles around and realized that he had been laying over Potor this entire time. He nudges himself off the cadaver till he reached the side.

 

There laid Potor between Ricky and Tinsley.

 

“Well?” Tinsley asks

“What?”

“How are we getting out of here?”

Ricky scratches his stomach before saying “Dunno”

Tinsley slams his head against the casket’s side.

“And who were those guys?”

“Oooh them!” Ricky says as in epiphany “Hmm… I actually don’t know.”

Tinsley slams his head against the cushion underneath him. Oh, how he wished he could give himself a harsher concussion.

 

Silence passes over them once more and Tinsley sighs in defeat as he hears Ricky gulping, presumably from drinking his whiskey.

“Well…this is cozy” Tinsley breathes. He could hear Ricky shuffling.

“I’ll agree with that, Tin-man.” Ricky says, sounding awfully content for their circumstances. “nothing more romantic than laying in the dark together talking about stuff, yeah?”

“Ah yes, with a corpse no less.” Tinsley wished that Ricky could see him roll his eyes.

“Especially- with a corpse, detective. Especially!” Ricky sounded genuinely offended on the behalf of Potor.

Tinsley pauses before continuing, “I actually like small spaces. Let’s me grasp the scope of my surroundings better… everything is zeroed in to a certain degree...filtered down to a frame.” 

Ricky notices that Tinsley isn’t just talking about the wooden box they’re trapped in.

He wondered if much of the oxygen has depleted when he took note of the dreamlike intonations in Tinsley’s voice as he spoke.

“Sounds like you actually want to be confined in a box, detective. Where’s the thrill in that?”

“So, is this why you do what you do?” Tinsley retorts.

“I’ll leave that up to you to guess.”

“Are you really going to be cryptic and shit when we’re buried six feet under?”

Ricky snorts at his hypocrisy.

“I can’t believe you dragged me into this mess” Tinsley says, trying not to laugh “as much as I want to say that ‘I want to kill you’, it’s just not that feasible in this position.”

Ricky chuckles and reaches his hand over to Tinsley, arm resting over Potor’s chest. He pokes Tinsley with his flask. Tinsley got the message and takes it.

He takes a meek sip, careful not to spill it on his face.

 “Why’d you bring me here, Goldsworth?” Tinsley whispers, his voice taking a tone of fatigue.

“You brought yourself here, detective. I only sent you the invitation”

Ricky hears Tinsley give out a huff but continues.

“Oh c’mon, you love this, Tinsley.” Ricky drawls.

 “Love what?”

 “You know what.”

Tinsley stays quiet.

“You could have handcuffed me again, instead you helped me dig out good ol’ Potor over here, like the buddy you are.” Ricky muses.

“I’m not your buddy”

“Oh, and you could’ve shot me on the spot! Isn’t that what you’re supposed do to criminals who jeopardize your safety?” he laughs.

Tinsley opted to take a hearty swig from the flask “You’ve got to give me a good reason to shoot you right on the spot, Goldsworth. And besides, pistols are banned in the UK.”

“That shouldn’t stop you.”

 Tinsley throws Ricky a chiding look but remembers that they can’t see each other.

 “Think of the headlines though! “Detective C.C. Tinsley Brings Down Infamous Urban Legend, Ricky Goldsworth!” wouldn’t that be something?”

 Tinsley is reminded that getting Ricky into the spotlight would be a challenge, for Ricky has always kept his tracks clean.  His face isn’t even in the books.

“Ricky Goldsworth” has been connotated with every ludicrous case and enigma known to any law enforcement for the past half decade.  Ricky Goldsworth is nothing but a ghost story to them.

Ricky interrupts Tinsley’s thoughts again. “Admit it, detective, you’re getting a kick out of this.”             

He doesn’t wait for Tinsley’s response.

“You want my name on your ledger of solved cases, but the chase seemed more fun.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Dear reader, I’m afraid we’ll have to go back to the events from a few months ago._

_Back to when these two men sat handcuffed to each other in a red Cadillac, on a highway heading north._

 

_It’s been hours since Boston and the sun has long set._

_Tinsley fiddles with the chain of the handcuffs as he thinks back to how he’s demoted himself to be the laughing stock at his agency. Maybe his incident report of this day would be the cherry on top._

_Tinsley had an epiphany. He realized that he always found himself unnaturally giddy at the prospect of tracking Ricky down to what will be no doubt a comical predicament._

 

 

_Ricky Goldsworth excited him._

 

_After several hours on the road with the combination of lingering dizziness from the concussion, the exhaustion and Ricky’s singing lulled Tinsley to sleep._

_When he wakes up, it is to the image of sun rays being filtered by leaves. He feels a sharp jab to his forehead._

_A bird sat on his hair and continued to peck at his face._

_He quickly gathers in his surroundings and concludes that the car was parked in forest not to far from the highway._

_The more curious thing he noticed was an empty driver’s seat and a missing con-man._

_Tinsley looks at the handcuff attached to his left wrist with amusement._

_He picks up the small box off the dashboard and opens it, only to see that the Bulgari watch was still inside._

_He takes the watch out and smiles._

_“Ricky, you son of a-“_

 

* * *

 

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Tinsley’s reverie was cut a tad bit short when the familiar sound interrupted his thoughts.

The sound came from outside _._

“Ricky, do you hear that?”

“I do!”

The muffled crunches grow louder. Then, a brash and harsh thump causes a vibration to reverberate throughout the casing of the casket.

Several scrapes followed.

Before Ricky and Tinsley realized it, an excessively bright light blinds them after accompanying the sound of the casket lid opening.

After several blinks, Ricky’s eyes adjust to see a looming yet short figure holding a flashlight in one hand and a shovel in the other, standing before he, Tinsley and Potor.

All Tinsley could discern from their saviour was a head full of purple curls.

“Francesca!” Ricky gasps.

“Hey, boss.” Francesca smirks.

 

 

 

_-to be continued-_

**Author's Note:**

> • I REPEAT! IF SOME BITS DON’T MAKE SENSE, IT’S CUZ IT’S REFERENCING PART 2 OF THIS SERIES
> 
> • Why couldn’t I have done this series as a single fic with multiple chapters?
> 
> Cause I’m making up these stories up as I go by and I might want to go into a whole different direction. 
> 
> • Gotta make it clear that I don’t know much about the locations I set these fics in this series in, so forgive any false descriptions and baloney  
> • And another thing! “accumulator” means ‘collector ‘or ‘hoarder’ and “potor” means ‘hard drinker’ in latin hohohohoho I’ll shut up now


End file.
